


Star-crossed

by kittenmichael



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: But whatever, M/M, but there's also lots of fluff, but there's lots of mashton bc wow brotp, i also changed the title because i really hate my life, i posted this as a chapter fic frst, i'm too lazy for that so here's the whole thing, michael is ashton's secretary in london during ww1, the battlefield barely gets mentioned tho, this is super angsty btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:53:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenmichael/pseuds/kittenmichael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ashton ends up as a business man in London during WW1, not even his cute secretary can take his mind off of the horrors of war and the ever-present rumbling keeps him awake at night. Sleep-deprived and struggling with a feeling of guilt, he stumbles upon the perfect occasion to soothe his conscience.</p><p>“We’re in times of war, Ashton. Everyone’s either dying or they’re already dead.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star-crossed

Rain drops crash harshly on Ashton’s window, desperate to escape the midnight air. With the dim moonlight illuminating them, they draw strange shadows on his face. He’s gazing through the window, the curtains cracked open just wide enough for him to be able to peek past them, but not enough to expose him to London’s nightlife.

 

He brings his hand to his face and slowly rubs his eyes, wishing he’d just fall asleep already. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest that messes with his heartbeat, speeding it up and slowing it down. He feels as though he’s sinking deeper into the mattress with every second that passes, his fist curling around the soft, white duvets.

 

There’s a low rumbling in the distance, barely audible over the loud taps of the droplets yet deafening in the noisy mess that the cacophony of sounds makes of his nightly thoughts.

 

He knows what it means.

 

He vaguely remembers telling his little sister stories about the weather when it was storming outside and she was afraid. With stupid anecdotes and bad jokes he explained to her that sometimes, the sky gets upset. With harsh raindrops it expresses how it feels, banging its hands in frustration and thus creating thunder. After a while, they made up stories together, reasons why the sky had started crying.  

 

But tonight it’s not the sky’s pain that’s keeping him awake. It’s someone else’s.

 

The man-made thunder sends shivers down his spine, leaves his fingers tingling where the ink is still stuck on his skin. It makes his head buzz with letters he tries so hard to strike through and twists his intestines. It’s the reason he can’t sleep tonight.

 

Artillery barrage and mines create immense noise. Explosives blowing up at Ypres in Belgium can be heard 140 miles away.

 

Battling hooker’s cries and drunken mumbles to be heard, it’s often the only reminder of the flowing blood and the war being fought overseas.

 

*

 

With one last desperate glance in the mirror in the hallway, he pushes the door open that leads to his secretary’s office, his feet padding softly on the marble floor. He holds his breath, afraid to disturb the manufactured silence that holds nothing but the violent tapping of Michael’s typewriter.

 

He looks like death and he knows it. His sun-kissed skin has melted into a snow-like colour that contrasts with his unruly curls, which are awfully droopy today. Maybe if he brushes them down his forehead, they’ll hide the bags underneath his bloodshot eyes. It’s hopeless, really, and he can already feel Michael’s judgemental stare resting on his heavy bones. He tries to shrug it off, picking up his pace and letting out an inaudible sigh when his hand finally touches the faux-golden knob.

 

He makes it to his own office without snarky remarks that fail horribly at hiding Michael’s worry. The feeling of relief soon washes away though; there’s a fresh load of paperwork on his desk. The stack has to be at least a couple inches high, list upon list he’s supposed to check off. After letting out yet another sigh, he unscrews his pen and pulls the first sheet of paper from the pile. The letters dance in front of his eyes and he pushes his thin-rimmed glasses further up his nose, as if that would silence his ever-running thoughts. He’s about to get his typewriter when a voice breaks his (lack of) concentration.

 

“That’s the third time this week, Irwin,” Michael scolds, and he takes a seat on Ashton’s desk, placing a can of coffee in front of the older boy. He doesn’t bother with cups, knows he’ll be running up and down their offices all morning if he tries that.

 

“I-I’m sorry, I can’t help it. It’s just- I, I can’t, like-” Ashton falls silent when he notices Michael isn’t interested in excuses. He only shakes his head, his hand subtly ghosting over the frame on Ashton’s desk as he stands up. “Drink up. I’ll bring you another one in two hours.”

 

Ashton hears the door shut behind him, but the sound is somewhere far away, barely registered in his mind. His thoughts are still with Michael’s short, stubby fingers, running over the thin glass that covers the picture in the wooden frame.

 

Ashton misses his family sometimes, misses waking up to his brother running around their room or his sister making a fuss. His mum would yell at them to settle down before their father got mad.

 

London is nice, don’t get him wrong. He lives in a gorgeous house, a house only for him. It’s quite large, with circle-shaped doors and windows and a curved staircase. He loves every inch of it, from the glass windows, even though he needs several metres of curtains, to the tree-like subtleties that can be found all over the house. Despite the fact that he’s only been living there for a few weeks, it makes London feel more like home than ever before.

 

His boss sold it to him for close to no money, as a reward for his hard work. Apparently the Art Nouveau Ashton loves so dearly was much less fashionable than the stream-lined Art Deco that is now taking over London, so his boss wanted to get rid of the house. It was much better than the flat he stayed at before, and if he's planning on pursuing his political career, which he is, he has to work on his image.

 

The house came with a promotion that lead to the inevitable load of paperwork that magically appears on his desk every morning.

 

Ashton rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to put his typewriter on his desk using only one arm and nearly knocking over the can of steaming coffee. He decides he might as well drink half of it now, in case his sleep-deprivation induced clumsiness hits its peak. He glances at the list again, satisfied when he notices that the letters are no longer dancing and instead stay in line.

 

The first name on the list is Charlie Adderson. A haphazard combination of letters that makes no sense to him, because he forces every fibre of his being to believe that that is all there is to it. He curses every brain cell that tries to itch towards personification because at the top of the page, written in bitter, bold letters, it says _executions_.

 

He’s written letters like these before, annunciations of death, sent to people who know they have it coming. Just like every other citizen of the UK, he knows who they are.

 

 _Pacifists_.

 

Some think they’re cowards, others think they’re just naive. Most just loathe them, treat them like strays, ready to spit on them if the occasion arises.

 

The ones on Ashton’s list are the die-hards, the ones that have been kicked down and beaten until they bled, locked up in prisons for the most trivial things until all they remember is how many tiles there are on the ceiling of their cell. They haven’t been allowed exemption from fighting and refuse to join the Non-Combatant Corps. If their names on the letters Ashton’s about to send, it must mean their hands got frozen, cramped in a position that made it impossible for them to hold a gun, let alone use one. They get sent to the front, where they are given a choice: take the gun and fight, or face the barrel and die.

 

Ashton’s hand shakes as he taps the keys of his typewriter, every muscle in his body protesting as he types letter after letter. He has no choice, it’s what he gets paid for. No letters, no Art Nouveau house, no envelope to send to his family. He takes a few gulps of the bitter coffee, wincing when the hot liquid burns his tongue, even though he’s no longer in danger of falling asleep.

 

His sweaty finger slips off of one of the keys and he curses, eyeing the mistake on the paper wearily. He wonders if he could get away with striking it through and continuing the letter. Involuntarily, he starts connecting the letters he typed mere seconds ago, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth when he reads _shameful_  and _abomination_. Ashton compells himself to move his fingers, to form more words, to string them together so they form sentences that are bound to reduce the reader to tears. His heart beat rings in his ears, willing him to type faster, and his K is an L and his F is a G and Mr Faye doesn’t deserve this letter. He rips the paper out of the typewriter, clutching it with both hands as he inspects what he’s written. He’s at the second paragraph and even though the words are getting blurry, he can still make out that the ink is getting smudged. With a frustrated scoff, he lets the sheet fall on his desk and buries his face in his hands, his fingers digging into the pale skin of his cheeks. Somewhere in the background, he hears that _rumbling_. It’s soft and resigned, but it shakes his ear drums as hard as it shakes his core. A muffled sob escapes his mouth, slipping in between the gaps that his fingers create and echoing in the cold room. It breaks when it hits the walls, but Ashton is too busy trying to _keep breathing_  to notice. A hand squeezes his shoulder, its warmth soaking his shivering body with concern and he realises that the rumbling is the sound of Michael making coffee.

 

At least it’s not the rumbling of his sister’s stomach.

 

“You okay?” Michael asks, as he replaces the empty can on Ashton’s desk with a new, full one. There’s an edge to his voice that reveals that he’s ignoring the tears for his friend’s sake even though he knows more than anyone else in this building what it feels like to carry the weight of such guilt on your shoulders.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Ashton wipes his tears away with the sleeve of his suit, his word muffled by the sobs that are fighting to break free. “I just, I’m just having a,” he winces, “tough moment.”

 

Michael’s gaze falls on the slightly crumpled letter on Ashton’s desk, his features softening when he reads its title. He envelops Ashton in a hug, helping him up to avoid an awkward angle. One of his hands snakes around his waist while the other is pressed against the back of Ashton’s neck. “Oh Ash,” he mutters heavy and deep. With his thumb, he draws patterns on his back. “Remember why you’re here.” His words are gentle and sweet, dripping slowly into his ear in the most comforting of all ways. “Remember where you came from.” They drag a lone sob out of Ashton, one he tries so desperately to silence by hiding his face in Michael’s neck. “I miss them, Mikey. I miss them so much.” Michael can feel him shudder against his body and clenches his hands to fists, ignoring the carefully ironed fabric that protests against his grip. Ashton is falling apart in his arms, every cup coffee, every programmed lie melting into tears that run down his cheeks. He swallows loudly and forces himself to let go, to push him away.

 

“You can’t miss it, Ashton,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “It’s not the same anymore. And it won’t be the same when you come back.” Ashton nods vigorously, his messy curls bouncing up and down and mixing with his tears. “It’s gone,” he mutters as he pulls down his sleeves until they cover his hands. “It’s gone and it won’t ever come back if I don’t write these fucking letters.”

 

He clears his throat, straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his curls. Michael nods curtly, putting his hand on Ashton’s shoulder and giving it an awkward squeeze before he leaves the office. His footsteps barely make a sound when he crosses the small room, as if too many decibels would break his friend’s trance. Ashton crumples Jonathan Faye’s letter while he wipes away the tear streaks on his cheeks. His lungs feel like they’re about to explode, stuffed with too many held-back sobs and not enough air, but he has no time for this. With a tissue, he cleans the sweat off of his typewriter to avoid making any mistakes again and he puts in a new sheet.

 

Jonathan Faye.

 

J-o-n-a-t-h-a-n F-a-y-e

 

It takes him almost eight seconds to get the name down, but it’s there now and he’s already moving on to the next couple of words. Though his guilt is somewhere high up his throat, he knows that if he keeps swallowing it’ll stay there instead of coming up in word vomit. That’s what he focusses on. Swallowing. Swallowing. Swallowing.

 

Before he knows it he’s finished the first paragraph, his typing speed has multiplied but so has the number of thoughts running through his head. He types and types and types, each letter on its own, no sense, no entities being formed. By the time he’s at the end of Mr Faye’s letter, the number of thoughts has decreased to one.

 

 _Conscription_.

 

It’s the thread that links them all, the measure that lead him to where he is now, alone, sat at a desk announcing people’s deaths with tears burning his droopy eyes, far away from his family. When conscription was introduced, his father was sent to Belgium to fight, which is where Ashton would be now if it weren’t for his uncle’s connections. If both him and his father had joined the army, his mother wouldn’t have had enough money to feed two growing kids.

 

That’s the mess he left behind when he stepped on a train with a one-way ticket to London, his family’s road to success, to survival. Michael is right, there’s nothing to miss. His father departed a few weeks before him and his absence had resulted in poignant situations that he would much rather forget about.

 

But the rumbling, oh the rumbling wouldn’t leave. Nor would the memory of his sister’s face when he finally brought home bread, or the sunken cheeks and hair falling out.

 

That’s why he continues typing. He has a family to feed.

 

With newfound bravery he presses the keys down, his heart beating in time with the rhythm. He pushes down hard and fast, as if every letter is an extra scoop of food on his brother's plate.

 

R becomes peas. E becomes mashed potatoes. A becomes apples. K becomes bread. L becomes thick, creamy sauce. F becomes soup. U becomes meat.

 

Ashton downs the whole can of coffee while he writes recipes in his head instead of letters. The guilt disappears further and further down his throat with every bite he imagines his siblings taking. Michael quickly peeks through a half opened door a few times, his lips bending in a smile that is somehow both content and full of regret when he sees Ashton typing.

 

His fingers dance over the keys and he pushes the carriage lever to the far right with so much force his desk shakes.

 

He’s in the middle of a meal, his sister smiling happily while his little brother scarfs down his food. Thick, creamy sauce, the meat they had no doubt missed, freshly baked bread and mashed potatoes. He’s about to start his next plate when he notices it.

 

L-U-K-E

 

The name rings a bell, soft and blue in his memory. A smile conquers his permanent frown when he remembers those thin, blond locks, before falling again when he glances at the list in front of him. His stomach does different somersaults now. Somersaults on the tips of his fingers, overestimating his strength and making him crash to the ground. He’s afraid to check if it’s really water that comes next. He considers calling Michael, asking him to check in his stead.

 

But he doesn’t, because the last time he saw Luke they were both in the meadow behind his house, playing pretend. His memories of Luke are slightly crumpled, covered with a layer of dust. They were made many miles away from London.

 

He sighs, digging his fingernails in the palm of his hand as he lets his eyes roam to the middle of the list, where he found his sauce, meat, bread and mashed potatoes. And water.

 

He gasps. Or he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he does or doesn’t do, all he knows is that the air is knocked out of him with so much force it’s making his head spin. With trembling fingers, he traces to letters on the paper, wincing when he feels the ridges. His lips quiver when he tries to move them. They protest, refusing the let any sound get past them as they stay frozen, half-opened in shock. Tears well up in his eyes and the name becomes blurry. Luke Hemmings.

 

“Michael.” It comes out too silent, the sound immediately drowned out by London’s idle morning chatter. He shuts his mouth, sucking in air through clenched teeth.

 

“Michael, Michael!” His scream pierces the walls, slipping past the closed door and sneaking through tiny holes here and there, no doubt reaching his secretary within seconds. By the time he finds it in himself to breathe again, the door swings open and Michael is hovering over his desk.

 

“What happened?” He asks, taking in the tears that clot Ashton’s eyelashes together and the lack of air that took away every pigment of colour the coffee managed to paint on his cheeks. Ashton pushes the list in his hands, hissing because the mere contact with the ink leaves his hands burning as Michael stares cluelessly at the letters.

 

“Luke Hemmings.” Ashton says the name as if it will explain everything, his eyes widened and his features tinted with the most desperate shade of expectation. Michael just shrugs, eager to find out what caused Ashton to make such a scene at work. “He’s on the list.”

 

“I know,” Michael says, and he lays the list back on the desk. “And so is Kyle Watson, James Gallio. And about thirty-five more people.” Ashton shakes his head with so much force his neck snaps, but he pays no mind to the pain in his neck when his lungs still feel like bursting.

 

“No, no it’s not like that.” He grips the edge of the desk, leaning closer to Michael but avoiding the sheet of paper like the plague. “He used to be my best friend.”

 

Michael’s features soften a little, before a sigh slips past his parted lips. “My best friend fell in the First Battle of Ypres,” he says, as if stating a meaningless fact. “Please get back to work.” Without looking at Ashton or the piece of paper, he turns around, his shoulder slightly slumped, which contradicts the way he tries to hold his chin high.

 

“No, please, Michael, you don’t understand,” Ashton cries, his hands reaching out uselessly to the boy who’s rushing out of the room. His fingers brush Michael’s upper back, sending a shiver down his spine. “What is there not to understand, Ashton?” He sneers as he glares over his shoulder, a look in his eyes that Ashton can’t quite identify.

 

“He’s going to die. Oh god, Michael, if you could see him,” Ashton’s fingertips grasp Michael’s shirt in an attempt to pull him back. “He doesn’t deserve to die.” His tone is pleading, as if it’s Michael who put Luke’s name on the list and he’s the one who can get it off.

 

“We’re in times of war, Ashton,” Michael snaps, shrugging Ashton’s hand off of his back. “Everyone’s either dying or they’re already dead.”

 

*

 

Ashton has finished yet another can of coffee by the time Michael’s knocks on his door, strong yet graceful. It tells him not to get his hopes up, Michael didn’t come here because he changed his mind.

 

“Come in,” he calls, after clearing his throat and ruffling his curls one last time. Michael cracks the door open, his dirty blond hair slipping in between the wooden door and its frame. “Mr Hood has come to inform you that Mr Smithson is ready to see you now.” His tone is polite and controlled, but Ashton can see the anger burning in his eyes. With trembling hands he guides Ashton to his desk, where his boss’s secretary is awaiting him.

 

Mr Hood sends Ashton a warm smile, one that reveals a perfect set of white teeth. He can’t be much older than Michael, he guesses, but unlike Ashton’s secretary, he seems to have found a way to compromise looking youthful and being professional. Michael always looks kind of out of place in his suit. Like the way he was forced to grow up too quickly and too roughly is written permanently on his features. Ashton throws a quick glance his way while he crosses the room, his gaze landing on Michael’s shaking hands before drifting off to the wooden frame on his desk.

 

There’s only one person in the picture.

 

He averts his eyes, focusing on the way Mr Hood is leaving the office instead. He keeps looking over his shoulder to check if Ashton is still following, a warm kind of worry dripping off his actions that looks surprisingly well with the fluffy tuft of brown hair that rests on his forehead.

 

"Please follow me," he says, as if Ashton could get lost in the ten seconds it takes to reach Mr Smithson's office at the other end of the corridor. Ashton is fully aware that Mr Hood could have just called Michael instead of stopping by himself.

 

He thinks it may have something to do with the fact that he entered Mr Hood's office with tear tracks on his cheeks and his clothes all messed up, requesting a minute of his boss’s time. The secretary was nice enough not to comment about it, but it was impossible to miss the shock twisting his face. After nodding quickly, he assured Ashton that he would let his secretary know when he had time.

 

Mr Hood knocks on the grand, wooden door that leads to their boss’s office before opening it.

 

“Mr Smithson? Mr Irwin is here, sir.” He takes a step back, allowing Ashton to enter and closing the door behind him. With hesitant steps, Ashton walks further in to the room, careful not to slip on the polished marble floor. His boss points at the chair in front of his desk as an invitation for him to sit down. The leather chair has a backrest that’s curved in a semicircle and Ashton grasps the wooden armrests tightly.

 

Mr Smithson’s office is by far the most impressive office in the whole company. Every surface seems to shimmer in the light the chandelier creates. Wherever he looks, all Ashton can see is his own reflection, on endless reminder of just how awful he looks what with the bags under his eyes and his red and blotchy skin. There’s a British flag hanging behind Mr Smithson, amplifying his authoritative appearance. Ashton has only been here a couple of times and despite the stern air that hangs around the office, Mr Smithson is actually a nice enough man.

 

“I heard you wanted to talk to me?” He asked, leaning back in his own chair and pressing his fingertips together. His black hair is slightly greying, a side-effect of his important position, Ashton guesses.

 

An explanation is all he’s been thinking about since he left Mr Hood’s office earlier today, writing and rewriting speeches that can explain the storm that is currently waging in his mind. He even rehearsed a couple of them, reciting them in the empty silence of his office. He came prepared, determined to win his boss over.

 

“I-I-” Half an hour of work vanishes in a matter of seconds. His mind is blank, save for the chant of _sauce-meat-bread_  that grows louder every time Mr Smithson blinks. His mouth is dry, frozen mid-syllable. “Luke Hemmings,” he eventually spits out. The name crawls up his throat with claws that dig so deep Ashton is sure his mouth is bleeding, but his mouth is still dry, and it locks up each and every word that begs to be let out.

 

“Luke Hemmings?” Mr Smithson questions, one eyebrow raised. He seems unconvinced by his employee’s breathy silence.

 

“He’s, he’s-” Ashton tries again, his voice refusing to work and his mind going a hundred miles per hour. He can barely hear his boss’s voice over the loud chanting in his ears. The trapped words are slowly dying in his mouth. It’s making him feel sick.

 

“Ashton,” Mr Smithson begins, his tone soft and patronising, but Ashton cuts him off. He’s swaying in his chair, his head clouded with dizziness but when hearing what sounds an awful lot like hope, horribly-stringed sentences are tumbling from his lips.

 

“He’s on the list, sir. He, he’ll die, sir,” he mutters. “I need to get him off. Please, oh god, I need to get him off that, that list. He’s going to die. Luke is going to die and I need to, to stop it, sir, there is no other way. The rumbling, sir, the rumbling won’t stop and if he dies then it won’t ever stop and I want it to leave. Sir, I need it to leave, please, I beg of you, _make it leave_.”

 

Mr Smithson’s forehead is creased with wrinkles as he tries to comprehend the explanations he’s spitting out with a dazzling velocity. Truth is, not even Ashton knows what he’s saying. He doesn’t know where Luke and the rumbling connect but he knows that Luke needs to come and the rumbling needs to leave.

 

The echo of Ashton’s rant casts a silence over the room, while Mr Smithson is processing and understanding and Ashton is figuring things out.

 

The large wooden clock in the corner of the room is ticking loudly, setting an impossible pace for Ashton’s thoughts, and he wants it to stop because it’s making him dizzy and wood isn’t supposed to be this goddamn shiny.

 

“Luke is…” Mr Smithson says, weighing his words, which sound heavy either way. “A pacifist?” He guesses, and Ashton nods curtly. “Luke Hemmings, a pacifist whose name is on a list and who’s about to get executed.” He says it slow and careful, as if he’s tasting the words on his tongue.

 

They must taste bitter, because Mr Smithson scowls.

 

“Ashton,” he pauses, folding his hands under his chin, “you are one of the most promising employees I have. You’re smart, you’re dedicated, and you know how to use your brain.” He waits for him to catch up, but Ashton is lost. What does this have to do with Luke? With the list? With his imminent death?

 

“The thing is, you’re still growing. You’re climbing your way up in this company. Since you got here, you’ve already been promoted twice. And for the position you have now, you use your brain too much.” Mr Smithson leans forward and rests his hands on his desk. “I like you, Ashton, and if you deem it necessary, I’ll get someone else to finish that list.”

 

That’s it. That’s all he says.

 

Ashton is confused for a second, before the cogs in his head start turning and he realises. Panic takes over when he thinks about rumbling and never ending and life and ending and perpetual and fuck-

 

“Sir, you don’t understand. If Luke Hemmings dies, I’m quitting my job.”

 

Mr Smithson leans back, his eyes wide with shock. Ashton isn’t sure what surprised him more, his statement or the fact that he just uttered a coherent sentence.

 

“Ashton, I-”

 

“I mean it.”

 

Another silence. The tension is unbearable and it’s making Ashton sick. His stomach churns as memory after memory catches him like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. He can feel them coming closer, every thought he dares to think unravelling the entanglements in his mind, but he can’t do anything but wait until the reminiscence hits him.

 

“We, we, we used to play pretend in the meadow near my house. And I taught him, I taught him how to count to ten and he has these beautiful blue eyes and sometimes the kids at school, like, they would pick on him if I wasn’t there to, you know, defend him and he has blond hair and sir, please, you can’t just let him die. It’s not fair. It’s not right. Please, Mr Smithson.” Ashton is rambling at a crippling pace and he knows it and why is he telling his boss all this? There’s more, waiting on the tip of his tongue, stories and anecdotes ready to be shared if it means that Mr Smithson will help him save this life. But by the looks of it, the man didn’t catch a word of what he just said. His brow is furrowed again, his eyebrows raised as if a single name tells him just as little as bits and scraps of Ashton’s memory.

 

“This boy, Luke Hemmings, is he a friend of yours?” He asks, soft and hesitant, as if he’s afraid to incite another set of memories. This time, though, Ashton falls silent. His response is barely audible, drowned out within seconds, but Mr Smithson understood and now the silence is so loud it’s hurting his ears.

 

“Childhood best friend.”

 

And there’s the ticking again, the ticking of that goddamn shiny clock. He casts his eyes downwards. Ashamed? Resigned? He doesn’t even know himself. He can feel Mr Smithson’s gaze on him, no doubt taking in the wrinkled shirt and the bags as heavy as the three words he just let loose in the room.

 

“I understand,” he says. For once, Ashton actually believes it. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Then, “How much are you willing to give up for this?”

 

He doesn’t even hesitate, the word spills past his lips before he can reconsider his decision. “Everything.” Mr Smithson looks pained.

 

With a sigh, he shifts in his chair until he’s leaning against the backrest, his hands folded on his lap. Ashton notices he does that a lot.

 

“Alright.” It’s his final decision. “I’ll talk to the guys upstairs. You do know this is way above our league, right? Anyway, you’re paying for everything. If I have to take these people out for dinner, if I have to buy them fucking flowers, you’re paying for it.”

 

Ashton thinks about sauce, meat, bread, mashed potatoes and water.

 

And how his siblings won’t get any of it.

 

“Deal.”

 

*

 

He lets his eyes fall shut as he closes the door of Mr Smithson’s office and momentarily rests his forehead against it. It’s made almost entirely out of wood, but unlike the clock, it gives off a warm, home-y vibe. The sound of tapping snaps him out of his daze and he tenses up. _Mr Hood_.

 

He turns around quickly, catching the young man studying him curiously.

 

“Will you be okay?” he asks, his doe-like eyes filled with worry and his bottom lip poking out. It seems inevitable, really, with lips as plump as his.

 

“I,” Ashton pauses and sighs, “hopefully.” It’s a lame response but Mr Hood nods curtly, before grazing his gaze over him once again. Ashton shifts self-consciously. At least he knows that his tear tracks have mostly faded after seeing his own reflection so many times in his boss’s office.

 

He lets go of the doorknob, taking Mr Hood’s typing as his queue to leave. He’s about to step into the hallway when his colleague speaks up again.

 

“I’m Calum, by the way.” There’s a small smile on his face and Ashton tries his hardest to mirror it, scolding his lips when all they can do is curl up a little. “Ashton,” he responds.

 

“Good luck, Ashton.” Calum says, with a dazzling sincerity that makes him look so much younger.

 

 _I’ll probably need it_ , he thinks as he flees from one painful conversation, only to run straight into another.

 

He wants to keep his eyes glued to the floor tiles while he hurries to his office, but he knows he shouldn’t. Michael is his best friend, after all. And his co-worker. Michael was never one to stay mad for long periods of time, especially not at Ashton.

 

With newfound courage, he looks up. Michael is sitting at his desk, typing away on his typewriter. Though his fingers are still trembling, it’s gotten better since he left. His green eyes are barely visible behind his fringe and he’s biting on the inside of his cheek. Michael looks mad, still, but now he’s leaning more towards resigned.

 

The image of Calum is now etched into every inch of his mind and Ashton compares the two of them involuntarily. He almost misses Calum with his warm eyes and the softness his voice showed when it called out his name. He immediately dismisses the thought though. If Calum found out that it’s a pacifist he’s going through hell for - someone who’s too much of a coward to fight, to defend his country -, his whole attitude might just turn around.

 

He directs his attention back to his pouty best friend, realising he’s been standing here for a little too long now. Nevertheless, he takes in Michael one time. The sight of him sends a shiver down his spine, reminds him that he might just do more harm than good with this. But this is Michael, his best friend. The young boy who’s all alone and who wishes hair dye wasn’t exclusively a women’s thing. He rips his gaze from the trembling hands and the pale skin and the tears that are fighting to fall. He’s about to leave when he notices what Michael is typing, when he recognises the format. He’s typing the conviction letters and neatly folded on the edge of his desk is Luke’s letter. All thoughts of regret vanish. He sets the two steps it takes to reach the wooden desk, crumpling the paper before flinging it in the litterbin.

 

Without so much as looking up, Michael clenches his fingers into fists and Ashton is pretty sure it’s not because that letter is about 5 minutes worth of work.

 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Ashton.” There’s a hostile edge to his voice, but he mostly just sounds sad.

 

“So do I, Michael,” he whispers before making a quick exit. There’s a new pile awaiting him on his desk, towering over his typewriter, unaware of what it replaces. With a sigh, he sinks down in his chair and buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t allow himself a lot of time before going back to work, drowning himself in words and letters. The image of Calum and Michael never leaves.

 

*

 

Ashton feels sick.

 

It’s half past five and he can hear Michael packing up in the room next to his. Throughout the day, his secretary had come in every once in a while to pick up a part of the stack of files on Ashton’s desk. Each time without so much as a word or a glance.

 

But now most employees are going home, Michael included, and there’s still about five centimetres worth of paper awaiting him. He realises that he’s missed lunch break somehow. He’s not sure if he minds.

 

In fact, Ashton feels as if he just swallowed a galaxy. The stars are piercing his insides, filling his stomach with blood, ready to be coughed up when he tries to do something ridiculous. Like speaking, for example. He’s still trying to figure out how it’s possible to feel so full, yet so empty. To say his interests aren’t exactly with food at the moment is quite the understatement, what with the painful dry-heaving he did in the bathroom not too long ago. Despite his heavy heart, he’s actually starting to feel rather light-headed and every few minutes he takes some time to admire the colourful flashes darting across his vision.

 

Ashton’s not an idiot. He knows that it’s not helping him finish his work, that this is his body begging for a break. The shaking and the crying took its toll on his body and now his carefully built up energy is disappearing faster than he’d deemed possible. He feels weak and dizzy again, like he used to back at home. But his fingers are still trembling and so is his whole body and if he could just breathe normally for a second than maybe at least his lungs would feel kind of okay. He knows that’s not going to happen any time soon though.

 

So he finishes his work, going through file after file with droopy eyes and fingers that threaten to slide off of the keys. He doesn’t know when he clocked out. It must have been late, because when he steps out in to the cold evening air the sky is an ominous dark colour that sends shivers down his spine. He wraps his scarf tighter around his throat and uses it to cover his mouth and ears in a weak attempt to survive the freezing weather without getting sick. It’s useless though, thanks to the mental state he’s in. He can feel the sweat underneath his armpits and on his back, it’s doing nothing to keep him warm. His heavy tread is tiring, but he continues walking at the same speed nevertheless. Though he surely must have passed a whore or two and some other businessmen on his way home, he can’t remember any encounters, too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice anything but the soft sound of his footsteps and the biting cold.

 

When he arrives home, he immediately discards his coat and scarf, changing them for a pair of warm pyjamas. There’s no time for something to eat, no time to do anything but climb in bed. His duvets wrap around him like the cold did minutes prior, only this fabric feels pleasant and he can feel the warmth spreading in his body. He curls his toes in delight, trying to silence the part of his brain that insists on bringing back memories that involve warmth and _Luke_. He lets one slip through before his eyes fall shut.

 

He thinks about it being too cold outside to play pretend and bothering his mother in the kitchen instead. She was baking cookies with the secret recipe Ashton had only discovered years later, when he finally got the hang of reading and was allowed in the kitchen without parental supervision. The smell filled the entire room, attaching itself to his mother’s apron and the blue curtains so that even after the cookies were long gone, the kitchen still smelled like them. Luke had been numb from head to toe, his lips and fingers as blue as his eyes after his brothers locked him out of the house for over an hour. They were huddled together next to the stove, enjoying the warm air and the smell that made their mouths water, while whispering hushed stories to each other. Luke was slowly thawing, his cheeks turning a violent red as he leaned closer and closer against Ashton and the warm stove. Until a high pitched yelp startled both Ashton and his mother, mere seconds before thick tears started streaming down the younger boy’s cheeks. Luke went home that day with third degree burns on his arm and a bandage with smileys and badly-drawn dragons on them.

 

Tonight, Ashton falls asleep within half an hour. The rumbling hasn’t even started yet.

 

*

 

The sun isn’t shining yet when Ashton wakes up. His room is still too dark for shadows and he has to search for the light switch in order to find his way from his bed to the door. Nevertheless, he knows he woke up right in time to get ready for work. He shuffles through the house on sock-clad feet, shivering when he reaches the hallway. There’s no time to admire its beauty, not that he was planning on doing that anyway. He can’t help his fingers from tracing the patterns in the balustrade as he walks down the stairs though.

 

He doesn’t bother with breakfast, still trying to figure out what to do with that goddamn galaxy, and hides deep into his coat and scarf instead. He decides to leave his gloves at home as an excuse for his shaking hands and opens the front door.

 

It’s no warmer than the evening before, but at least the sun is slowly rising while he pads along London’s neatly paved sidewalks. Above him, beautiful clouds are blooming, creating colours like purple and red that grow lighter and lighter with every step he takes.

 

He’s not sure if he likes it.

 

With the light the sun casts on the streets, he’s finally able to see the banners and posters that decorate every street and alley-way. Despite the conscription, the enlistment propaganda is still there. Drawings of soldiers, proud mothers and children, weapons and mean-looking Germans. They’re everywhere, at the baker’s, on billboards, in bus and train stations. The more recent the posters, the darker the message.

 

“Be honest with yourself. Be certain that your so-called reason is not a selfish excuse”

 

“Daddy, what did you do in the Great War?”

 

“You’re proud of your pals in the Army of course! But what will your pals think of you? Think it over!”

 

“To the women of Britain: Some of your men folk are holding back on your account. Won’t you prove your love for your Country by persuading them to go?”

 

Ashton can feel the galaxy stirring, like his very own rumbling hidden in his stomach. It sickens him that propaganda turned into blackmail and that young people like himself got tricked in to joining the war. He can still remember some of his friends saying they’d be home by Christmas.

 

They were home by Christmas. Just not the way their mum wanted them to be.

 

His eyes find their way to the dark tiles he walks on, too afraid to look up. Every inch of London is a reminder of what’s happening, but instead of absence and hunger, like in his hometown, there’s bright colours and smiling faces.

 

He prefers the tiles with their dull colour and watches them change as he makes his way to his office. He knows he’s in Michael’s, can tell by the clean shiny tiles, but he doesn’t look up. With no more than a half-hearted good morning he speeds past his desk.

 

He inspects the stack of paper work on his desk. It’s not as high as the previous one, so he won’t be working extra hours tonight. He glances at the sheet that lies on top, sighing in relief when he recognises its lay-out.

 

Payments. He’s writing pay-checks.

 

It’s been over a month since he last did this, so he figures it must be Michael’s task.

 

Ashton wonders how many pacifists there are if there was yet another stack of lists this morning. How many people can they possibly execute in two days?

 

He sinks down in his chair and sets his typewriter on his desk, his arms shaking under the weight. Not interested in wasting any time, he immediately starts his first letter.

 

As the hours pass by, his vision gets blurrier. The galaxy is stirring somewhere deep inside him, the gawking emptiness making him wince. All he has to do is sit entirely still, he figures after a while. If nothing is moving, he can work without seeing every letter twice. He doesn’t move for over half an hour, stays as still as possible when he’s shaking this badly.

 

Nevertheless, he can feel his face tingling. The sensation gets more intense when he dares to crack his neck, his trembling fingers leaving the keyboard momentarily to touch his skin. It’s unfamiliar and strange and Ashton can’t help but wonder if he’s coming down with something.

 

It doesn’t matter, he decides, and he goes back to typing. He’s already half-way, which is good, because his fingers are burning and so are his tear-filled eyes.

 

“Ashton?”

 

The calling of his name makes him turn around, the movement slow and hazy through his doubled vision. Michael is standing at the door, his hand clenched around the doorknob. He looks up, meeting Ashton’s gaze, and immediately let’s go of the faux-gold. His cold hands cup his face, but Ashton can barely feel it through the tiny needles that are currently piercing his skin. He vaguely wonders if Michael can tell that there are black spots dancing across his vision.

 

“I’m not letting you skip another meal, Ash. I brought you lunch.”

 

He figures he should probably worry about the unstoppable trembling and the fact that he’s about to start crying at work, but all he can think about is the fact that Michael noticed that he didn’t leave his office the previous day.

 

His mind is limited to one thought at a time and Michael is holding up a cheese sandwich so despite the rumbling, the only thing he thinks about is the food. Michael rips off a piece of the sandwich and presses it into Ashton’s hand, closing his fingers around it and guiding it to his mouth.

 

Ashton eats it immediately, appreciative of the wonderful taste and the way it silences his galaxy.

 

*

 

Another day passes.

 

Ashton lives with his eyes glued to the tiles and he kind of hates it because his surroundings remind him of the war, but the funny shapes in the tiles remind him of _Luke_.

 

Michael stops by his office every once in a while with cookies or a cup of coffee. Neither of them speak.

 

All in all, his days is filled with stars. Stars in his trembling fingers, dancing in front of his tear-filled eyes, hidden underneath his pale skin, piercing his insides or glued to the night sky, where they belong.

 

It’s already way past eleven when he opens the front door and the clock’s hand is closer to twelve than to eleven when he finally crawls in bed. His eyes are already half shut, his mind someplace miles away. Tonight he doesn’t bother fighting the memories.

 

He falls asleep halfway through the second one.

 

*

 

Ashton and Michael are sitting in Michael’s office, a silence too comfortable to break fell upon them a few minutes ago. A small, yet loud clock is keeping them awake with its ticking, reminding them that their break is slowly ticking away. Michael is sitting on top of his desk, a cheese sandwich in his hands, waiting to be devoured. Despite his hunger, his mind is more occupied with Ashton than with the empty feeling in his stomach. Ashton is sitting tiredly on a chair he’d put against the wall, his head resting against the pale wallpaper while he rips some bread in pieces. Almost reluctantly, he brings them to his mouth and chews so slowly their thirty minutes definitely won’t be enough.

 

His body is worn out due to lack of sleep and a constant waste of energy. The shaking stopped almost entirely, just like the crying did.

 

He has no energy left anyway, he’s completely drained, empty and vacant. Michael tries to fill the gaps with mindless chatter, commenting on Mr Quays from three doors down’s new haircut. Ashton manages a smile and an humorless giggle, but he barely hears what his friend says, too busy fighting the sleep that is threatening to take over.

 

“You’re not even listening, are you?” Michael scolds, but it’s playful and Ashton can hear the fondness in his voice. It’s no secret that sleep-deprived-Ashton amuses him, which is probably why he keeps stopping by every twenty minutes despite the workload their boss dropped off that morning.

 

“No, I’m not,” Ashton smiles, because honestly, there’s no point in lying. Michael looks like he wants to smile back, but his gaze lands on the ever-ticking clock and he ushers Ashton to eat.

 

“Shut up and eat your sandwich, you fool.”

 

With a shake of his head, which sends his untamed locks in every possible direction, he dismisses their conversation and pushes Ashton’s hand towards his mouth from where it had been hanging the air for too long. Ashton does as he’s told and chews quickly, making sure that Michael can see the mushy goo between his lips. Michael mutters a half-hearted _gross_ , but the comment gets lost when their door flies open.

 

In this company, showing no etiquette is considered the worst vice of all, so opening a door without knocking is unheard of. Therefore, it’s no surprise to see Calum standing in the doorway. He’s probably the youngest employee and despite his prior appearance manners are clearly the last thing on his mind when he’s worked up.

 

“Ashton, Mr Smithson would like to speak to you in his office.”

 

Calum’s eyes are twinkling dangerously as he exchanges a glance with Michael, whose face falls immediately. His features display a look that Ashton can’t quite decipher, one made of an overabundance of blinking and his bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

 

“Of course.” Regardless of the sudden tension in the room, Ashton smiles. He lays the unfinished sandwich on Michael’s desk and brushes off his clothes. Calum makes no move to follow him when he heads out of the door. He doesn’t stop walking though, because he can’t expect to get escorted to the other end of the hallway every time.

 

Mr Smithson calls him in when he hears him knocking and he walks the two steps it takes to sink down in the uncomfortable leather chair.

 

“Ashton Irwin.” His name sounds heavy on Mr Smithson’s tongue, before falling on the floor and breaking into a million tiny pieces. Mr Smithson folds his hands on his lap, the silence weighing down on the echo of his name.

 

Ashton bites the inside of his cheek, refraining himself from doing something stupid like biting his nails or clenching his fists. The tension is slowly wrapping itself around his throat and he’s sucking in quick puffs of air while he still can. Mr Smithson is observing him, his head tilted to the left and his lips slightly parted. It sends shivers down his spine.

 

“You, you wanted to, uh, see me, sir?” Ashton’s desperation to break the silence sends the words tumbling from his lips, the syllables pushing and pulling at each other to be the first to fall. He immediately regrets it, cringes at his own voice. It sounds way too high and low and laced with a thousand and one emotions his boss shouldn’t know about.

 

“I did, yes,” Mr Smithson replies with a tiny smile. He drags out the three words and Ashton finds himself cursing that shiny clock again when it ticks faster than his boss’s words yet slower than he wants it to. “I have news for you, Ashton.”

 

He allows himself to perk up and straightens his back. At least it’s something, he thinks. It’s better than the endless rumbling that keeps him awake and lulls him to sleep at the same time. Mr Smithson takes his sweet time to continue, taking a few breaths Ashton is unable to take while he prepares himself to make the announcement.

 

“It worked.” All of a sudden his voice is barely louder than a whisper, as if he knows that this news will both break and mend Ashton. Because he’s here, glued to an uncomfortable chair while Luke is out there somewhere. “Luke Hemmings, the pacifist.” Mr Smithson looks like he wants to say something else, but he changes his mind.

 

“He’s here, you know. In this very building.”

 

Ashton swallows loudly, his lungs now begging for air as he regains the ability to breathe.

 

“He’s,” the word gets stuck in his throat, like it can’t believe it’s actually being used, “here?” In the end, it comes out choked and wet, but his boss doesn’t seem to care.

 

“Yeah, he is.”

 

Ashton’s hands grasp the armrest, the leather cold and apathetic compared to his sweaty, trembling fingers. It takes all of his strength to not flee the room right now. He knows there’s still a _but_  coming.

 

“You can’t leave just yet though,” Mr Smithson says, confirming his suspicions. He leans backwards and opens one of the drawers of his office. “I take it you remember our deal?”

 

Ashton nods curtly and he can feel his face paling as the tingling feeling returns. His stomach churns when Mr Smithson lays a double folded sheet of paper on his desk, sliding it towards him. With shaking hands, he reaches out for it. The thin paper feels heavy in his grasp and he opens it with a lot of trouble.

 

His other hand clenches when he reads the hand-written number and he nods stiffly. He’s sure he won’t be able to utter anything coherent now, not with Luke so close and this number gnawing at his stomach. It’s making his head spin with hazy numbers and an amount of zeroes he hadn’t deemed possible. He remembers his sister with barely any hair left and his brother, too weak to play in the garden.

 

“Thank you, sir. I assume you will subtract it from my pay check?”

 

The words sound and feel like they came from someone else, because he’s still counting and recounting and trying to figure out what on earth you have to eat to pay that much money. It doesn’t matter, not anymore. He knows it’s too late when Mr Smithson nods with a sympathetic smile.

 

“You may now return to your office, Ashton. I believe there’s someone waiting for you.”

 

He stands up so fast his head spins even more and he grips the armrest of the chair for support. His boss’s eyes weigh him down as he clutches the paper in his hands, fighting the urge to crumple it. He thinks it’s unfair, so goddamn unfair how he has to choose between sauce, meat, bread and mashed potatoes and Luke and not hearing the rumbling. It’s unfair that he’s here in London while his father’s in Belgium. It’s unfair that there’s only one person in Michael’s picture.

 

His head is heavy with rants and pleadings as he steps into the corridor. It’s empty. His fingers are itching and the paper seems to burn his skin away. When his hand rests on the faux-golden doorknob its coldness sends shivers down his spine. At least that’s what he tells himself.

 

He takes a deep breath. In and out and in and out and one deep breath turns into twelve deep breaths and it takes him three minutes to gather the courage to actually open the door.

 

When the black spots and unwanted stars finally fade, he takes a step back. He feels like returning to the corridor and closing the door. The scene that’s unfolding merely two metres away can’t be anything other than a dream. An illusion, a hallucination created by his sleep-deprived mind. But then Michael’s words sound in his ear, fighting to be heard over his loud heartbeat.

 

We’re in times of war. Everybody is either dying or they’re already dead.

 

Ashton can’t quite decide what category Luke belongs to.

 

Michael is hovering over him, nursing a gashing wound above his left eyebrow. With a wet tissue, he dabs at the blood that is threatening to spill. Comforting words tumble from his lips with a remarkable ease and Luke looks up at him with widened eyes. There’s blood and dirt clotted in his blond hair, which is lying flat against his forehead. The uniform he’s wearing is ripped and covered in mud and it’s clearly a few sizes too big. Ashton’s convinced that anything would look too big on him, what with his sharp cheek bones and stick-like wrists. His skin is sickeningly pale, save for the spots where there’s blood or dirt, and someone’s spit is dripping down his cheek.

 

“Michael?”

 

Ashton croaks out, because it’s so much easier than saying _Luke_. For the first time in his life the name tastes bitter and just plain _wrong_. It’s the wrong thing to say, especially if the next thing he says is: “I thought you didn’t want him here?”

 

Luke whimpers, his thin fingers grasping Michael’s wrist as he looks up at him with tears in his eyes. He looks like he’s barely registering what’s happening, like he only hears half of the conversation but notices the tissue on his forehead and the noise London is making and Michael’s fingers wrapped in his hair as he tilts his head back and the way Michael is looking at him and how he’s clearly trembling despite his blasé appearance and Ashton understands entirely why Luke starts crying right then and there, sat on top of Michael’s desk.

 

Michael shushes him gently, his thumb stroking his bony hand to try and calm him down. The action confuses Luke and Ashton dares to wonder why, because he used to do that all the time.

 

“You’re my best friend, Ashton. I’m just trying to look out for you.” He looks up from Luke’s tear-stained face to flash Ashton a small smile. Ashton doesn’t even bother to try to return one. “Besides, look at him, it’s kind of hard not to feel bad for him.” He strongly doubts that statement, but he appreciates Michael’s attempt to get rid of the tension. “You wanna take over?”

 

Luke is still crying softly, curling in on himself and avoiding Michael’s hand. Ashton nods.

 

“Hey Luke, I’m gonna let Ashton take over, alright? I’ll be in the room next to this one,” Michael explains, his words slow and gentle, something very atypical for him. Once Luke nods, albeit with confusion, he lets go of him and gestures for Ashton to come closer.

 

Ashton carefully approaches Luke as if he’s a wild animal and not his childhood best friend. Luke looks up at him with widened eyes and Ashton wants to scream, scream and cry because the blue in his eyes is so overwhelming and it threatens to send his body into a frenzy. Especially when Luke whimpers and mutters: “Ashton?”

 

Tears spill down Ashton cheeks because Luke is sobbing now, his hands covering his bleeding face as he tries to get off of the desk. He stumbles and falls and now he’s hiccupping and this is so much worse than Ashton had expected.

 

“Luke?” Ashton whispers, even though he knows that this is indeed Luke because no one has a voice as tender as his and a pair of soft blue eyes to match it. Luke starts shivering uncontrollably, spitting out meaningless words as he tries to hide himself. He looks like a child playing hide-and-seek, convinced that what he can’t see can’t see him.

 

Ashton just stands there. It takes him another three minutes to figure out that Luke thinks he’s going to hurt him.

 

Once he realises that, something clicks, and he finally finds the courage to come close enough to touch him.

 

“Hey, Lukey,” he whispers, his voice as soft as the hand he's stretching out towards the crying mess on the floor. “Hey, love, it’s just me. I’m not mad at you, okay? Do you hear me, Luke? I’m not mad at you.”

 

Luke doesn’t stop crying, but he peeks through his fingers in a manner that can almost be described as shyly.

 

“You’re crying, Ashton,” he mutters, casting his eyes downwards even though his hands are still covering his face.

 

“I know, Luke. I’m sorry.” Ashton waits for a few seconds. “Can I come a little closer?” Luke nods slowly. “And is it okay if I help you clean up? Like Michael did, the nice boy who was here before?” Luke nods again.

 

With hesitant steps, he walks the half a metre it takes to reach him and scrunches down. He grabs Michael’s tissue and gently dabs at the wound. Now that he’s closer, he sees that it’s actually not that deep. They sit in silence for a while, Luke trying to calm his breathing while Ashton tries his hardest not to start crying or lean away. His stomach is churning because of the smell, the awful smell that hangs around Luke.

 

“Do you promise?”

 

The one to break the silence turns out to be Luke. His question comes out of nowhere and Ashton pauses his dabbing.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Do you promise you’re not mad at me?”

 

Ashton sighs, before leaning down and kissing Luke’s temple. The smell gets worse.

 

“I do. I promise I’m not mad at you.” It’s awful how Luke’s muscles relax after that, like he expected Ashton to lash out at any given moment. “Will you let me take you home? I’ll make us some cookies. I finally discovered my mum’s secret recipe.”

 

A knock on the door interrupts their conversation. When their visitor doesn’t pause to wait for an answer and immediately opens the door, Ashton knows it’s Calum. He looks different from the way he did when he asked Ashton if he was going to be okay. His jaw is set and he seems uncomfortable as he makes his announcement.

 

“Mr Smithson says you’re allowed to take the day off.”

 

Before Ashton can reply he turns around and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Even though they both know what’s going on, Luke barely even flinches.

 

“So, what do you think, Lukey? Does that sound good?”

 

Luke flashes him something that is probably supposed to be a smile, but it doesn't even come close because of his split lip. His hand finds Ashton and it feels cold and boney, but he doesn’t dare pull away. Luke clings to him when he helps him up, his arms snaking around his waist and his head pressing against Ashton’s side.

 

Ashton realises that if Luke had a picture in a nice frame on his desk, no one would be in it.

 

*

 

Luke waits for Ashton when he comes home a few evenings later. His blond hair is now fluffy and his odor no longer reminds him of rotting wounds and sweat and brings back memories of playing pretend instead. His blue eyes are shining, albeit with confusion most of the time. He doesn’t say much and most of his sentences are a jumbled mess, but Ashton has noticed that he loves saying soft words like _morning_  and _dear_. Even more than saying them, he loves hearing them. After gently prying every so often, Ashton has discovered that blackmailing propaganda does more harm than he had ever imagined. It results to protective mothers like Luke’s sending all their sons to war along with their husband, only to save their family from shame. He realises that most people don’t like pacifists when Luke wakes him up in the middle of the night, crying harder than he did when he burned his hand on the stove.

 

Luke doesn’t sleep much or he sleeps the whole time. He’s stuck between restlessness and an unfightable fatigue. Ashton lets him walk up and down the house, wincing when he puts too much weight on his foot, and catches him when despite everything, his tiredness catches up with him. He whispers sweet-nothings in his ear until he forgets about prison and having a weapon pushed in his hands, which Luke proceeds to repeat endlessly. If Luke says something, it’s usually something Ashton has said before.

 

Ashton thinks that maybe that’s what happens when you strip someone of their personality until nothing but the label you gave them remains. They only feel what you want them to feel, your words are the only thoughts they’re capable of thinking.

 

“How was your day?” Luke asks him. It’s the fifth time he’s asked tonight. “It was okay, Luke. Michael and I had lunch together and he told me he misses you.” The last part cheers Luke up and he wonders if that’s why he keeps asking over and over again.

 

Once he notices the answer satisfied Luke, he ruffles his hair and goes to the kitchen. He starts making dinner, chopping the vegetables in extra small pieces because he knows Luke loves that. He’s about to start on the carrots when Luke enters the kitchen. His hands are spread wide and he’s making wind-like noises with his mouth.

 

“What are you doing there, Lukey?” Ashton asks in amusement, pausing his chopping to look at the boy.

 

“I’m flying, Ash,” he whispers, smiling brightly while he runs in circles around Ashton. It tires him out after a while and he pretends to land, falling down on the floor with a thud. Ashton crunches down beside him.

 

“Tell me, Luke, do you like it in London?” The question has been bothering him for a while now, because he has no intention on locking Luke up in his house against his will.

 

Ashton thinks Luke sounds surprisingly clear for a traumatised boy who’s playing pretend, when he whispers, “I do like London, I just don’t like how I ended up here.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> if you read all of this, thank you so much! i hope you liked it. please let me know what you think!


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